The Portrait of A Lady (21 page)

Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible, and presenting many compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who, when she had read it, exclaimed: ‘‘Well, I never have heard of anything so stiff!''

‘‘I am afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as you suppose,'' Ralph observed.

‘‘No, it's not that; it's some deeper motive. His nature is very deep. But I am determined to fathom it, and I will write to him to know what he means.''

His refusal of Ralph's overtures made this young man vaguely uncomfortable; from the moment he declined to come to Gardencourt Ralph began to think him of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether Isabel's admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not rivals of his, and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius. Nevertheless, he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's promised inquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness—a curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her three days later whether she had written to London, she was obliged to confess that she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not answered her.

‘‘I suppose he is thinking it over,'' she said; ‘‘he thinks everything over; he is not at all impulsive. But I am accustomed to having my letters answered the same day.''

Whether it was to pursue her investigations, or whether it was in compliance with still larger interests, is a point which remains somewhat uncertain; at all events, she presently proposed to Isabel that they should make an excursion to London together.

‘‘If I must tell the truth,'' she said, ‘‘I am not seeing much at this place, and I shouldn't think you were either. I have not even seen that aristocrat—what's his name?— Lord Washburton. He seems to let you severely alone.''

‘‘Lord Warburton is coming to-morrow, I happen to know,'' replied Isabel, who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer to her own letter. ‘‘You will have every opportunity of examining him.''

‘‘Well he may do for one letter, but what is one letter when you want to write fifty? I have described all the scenery in this vicinity, and raved about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please; scenery makes a thin letter. I must go back to London and get some impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came away, and that is hardly time to get started.''

As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even less of the metropolis than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of Henrietta's that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming; she had a great desire to see something of London, which had always been a city of her imagination. They turned over their scheme together and indulged in visions of aesthetic hours. They would stay at some picturesque old inn—one of the inns described by Dickens—and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a literary woman was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at a coffee-house, and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the Abbey and the British Museum, and find out where Doctor Johnson had lived, and Gold-smith and Addison. Isabel grew eager, and presently mentioned these bright intentions to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter, which did not express the sympathy she had desired.

‘‘It's a delightful plan,'' he said. ‘‘I advise you to go to the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I will have you put down at my club.''

‘‘Do you mean it's improper?'' Isabel asked. ‘‘Dear me, isn't anything proper here? With Henrietta, surely I may go anywhere; she isn't hampered in that way. She has travelled over the whole American continent, and she can surely find her way about this simple little island.''

‘‘Ah, then,'' said Ralph, ‘‘let me take advantage of her protection to go up to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!''

14

MISS STACKPOLE would have prepared to start for London immediately; but Isabel, as we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to Gardencourt, and she believed it to be her duty to remain there and see him. For four or five days he had made no answer to her letter; then he had written, very briefly, to say that he would come to lunch two days later. There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the girl, and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient, not to appear to urge her too grossly; a discretion the more striking that she was so sure he really liked her. Isabel told her uncle that she had written to him, and let Mr. Touchett know of Lord Warburton's intention of coming; and the old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual, and made his appearance at the lunch-table. This was by no means an act of vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his being of the company might help to cover the visitor's temporary absence, in case Isabel should find it needful to give Lord Warburton another hearing. This personage drove over from Lockleigh, and brought the elder of his sisters with him, a measure presumably dictated by considerations of the same order as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel, who was nervous, and had no relish of the prospect of again arguing the question he had so precipitately opened, could not help admiring his good-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of that admiration it was natural she should suppose him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eye. He had plenty of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth, nun-like forehead, and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck, was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a manner which seemed to denote a conflict between attention and alienation. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh, she was the one that Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary quiet in her. Isabel was sure, moreover, that her mild forehead and silver cross had a romantic meaning—that she was a member of a High Church sisterhood, had taken some picturesque vows. She wondered what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would never know—that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least, was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in conversation, she was usually occupied in forming theories about her neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton, she would probably be shocked at the young lady's indifference to such an opportunity; or no, rather (this was our heroine's last impression) she would impute to the young American a high sense of general fitness.

Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which she now found herself immersed.

‘‘Do you know you are the first lord I have ever seen?'' she said, very promptly, to her neighbour. ‘‘I suppose you think I am awfully benighted.''

‘‘You have escaped seeing some very ugly men,'' Lord Warburton answered, looking vaguely about the table and laughing a little.

‘‘Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they are all handsome and magnificent, and that they wear wonderful robes and crowns.''

‘‘Ah, the robes and crowns have gone out of fashion,'' said Lord Warburton, ‘‘like your tomahawks and revolvers.''

‘‘I am sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,'' Henrietta declared. ‘‘If it is not that, what is it?''

‘‘Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best,'' Lord Warburton answered. ‘‘Won't you have a potato?''

‘‘I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you from an ordinary American gentleman.''

‘‘Do talk to me as if I were one,'' said Lord Warburton. ‘‘I don't see how you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to eat over here.''

Henrietta was silent a moment; there was a chance that he was not sincere.

‘‘I have had hardly any appetite since I have been here,'' she went on at last; ‘‘so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of
you,
you know; I feel as if I ought to tell you that.''

‘‘Don't approve of me?''

‘‘Yes, I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did they? I don't approve of lords, as an institution. I think the world has got beyond that— far beyond.''

‘‘Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes over me—how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don't you know? But that's rather good, by the way—not to be vainglorious.''

‘‘Why don't you give it up, then?'' Miss Stackpole inquired.

‘‘Give up—a—?'' asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a very mellow one.

‘‘Give up being a lord.''

‘‘Oh, I am so little of one! One would really forget all about it, if you wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do think of giving up—the little there is left of it—one of these days.''

‘‘I should like to see you do it,'' Henrietta exclaimed, rather grimly.

‘‘I will invite you to the ceremony; we will have a supper and a dance.''

‘‘Well,'' said Miss Stackpole, ‘‘I like to see all sides. I don't approve of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have got to say for themselves.''

‘‘Mighty little, as you see!''

‘‘I should like to draw you out a little more,'' Henrietta continued. ‘‘But you are always looking away. You are afraid of meeting my eye. I see you want to escape me.''

‘‘No, I am only looking for those despised potatoes.''

‘‘Please explain about that young lady—your sister— then. I don't understand about her. Is she a Lady?''

‘‘She's a capital good girl.''

‘‘I don't like the way you say that—as if you wanted to change the subject. Is her position inferior to yours?''

‘‘We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she is better off than I, because she has none of the bother.''

‘‘Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever you may do.''

‘‘Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole,'' said Lord Warburton. ‘‘And then you know we are very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!''

‘‘I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross a badge?''

‘‘A badge?''

‘‘A sign of rank.''

Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the gaze of his neighbour.

‘‘Oh, yes,'' he answered, in a moment; ‘‘the women go in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of Viscounts.''

This was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had his credulity too easily engaged in America.

After lunch he proposed to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though she knew that he had seen the pictures twenty times, she complied without criticizing this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at the paintings and saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: ‘‘I hoped you wouldn't write to me that way.''

‘‘It was the only way, Lord Warburton,'' said the girl. ‘‘Do try and believe that.''

‘‘If I could believe it, of course I should let you alone. But we can't believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you should admit what you do——''

‘‘What have I admitted?'' Isabel interrupted, blushing a little.

‘‘That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?'' She said nothing, and he went on—‘‘You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice.''

‘‘I have a reason, Lord Warburton,'' said the girl; and she said it in a tone that made his heart contract.

‘‘I should like very much to know it.''

‘‘I will tell you some day when there is more to show for it.''

‘‘Excuse my saying that in the meantime I must doubt of it.''

‘‘You make me very unhappy,'' said Isabel.

‘‘I am not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you kindly answer me a question?'' Isabel made no audible assent, but he apparently saw something in her eyes which gave him courage to go on. ‘‘Do you prefer some one else?''

‘‘That's a question I would rather not answer.''

‘‘Ah, you
do
then!'' her suitor murmured with bitterness.

The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: ‘‘You are mistaken! I don't.''